


Duty

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Exhaustion, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Mission, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-12 04:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: He checks every room, every window, every nook that someone might look past, but comes up empty. No ambush this time.Napoleon takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t quite feel like relief yet.One mission gone to hell, one night to pick up the pieces.





	Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Storystuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storystuff/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Storystuff! I hope you like your gift :)
> 
> Thanks to my equally anonymous beta!

The door swings open in front of them. The house is dark and quiet, but Napoleon needs to be sure that they’ve made it to safety this time. He waves at his partners to stay behind as he enters, his gun drawn. The air inside is just as cold as outside, just shy of making his breath cloud. His steps are silent, although his right leg throbs with every movement. The stab wound stopped bleeding a while ago. Lucky for him, because they couldn’t have afforded to slow down even more anyway.

He checks every room, every window, every nook that someone might look past, but comes up empty. No ambush this time. Napoleon takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t quite feel like relief yet.

“You can come in.”

Only a few moments later the lights in the hall turn on, Illya stepping through the door and kicking it shut again. Gaby is still perched on his back, one hand around his shoulders, the other lowering her gun.

Napoleon reaches for the door to his right and holds it open.

“Bathroom.”

He watches Illya carrying Gaby into it, before locking the front door after them. Her pained groan carries through the hall.

She is sitting on the edge of the bathtub when Napoleon joins them, Illya kneeling in front of her on the floor. In the light of the safe house they look even worse. Illya’s hair is almost black with crusted blood and soot. There’s not much left of his turtleneck, the flying embers left more holes than actual fabric. Gaby’s dress is in the same state with the addition of a deep tear, where one of the man tried to grab her, exposing most of her front. Between the bomb and men waiting to finish off any survivors, there was no time for decency.

Illya takes hold of her right shoe, searching her eyes. After a tiny nod, he pulls it off. Gaby’s pained gasp echoes on the tiles. Her ankle is swollen to almost twice its normal size. Napoleon goes to look for something to ice it with, but comes up empty. There’s nothing they can do, but immobilize it until they get better supplies on the morning. He grabs a chair and double checks the windows and the door on his way back.

Illya understands as soon as he sees Napoleon carrying the chair and helps Gaby to switch places, so she can use the closed toilet lid to elevate her foot. They can wrap it, if they have bandages left after tending to their open wounds. Else they will just have to improvise.

There are a couple of washcloths on top of the cabinet and a large first aid kit under the sink. Napoleon hopes that it’s enough for now. He looks down at his hands. They are filthy, just like the rest of his body. There’s no use cleaning their wounds like that.

He shrugs off his shirt, not bothering with the buttons. It’s unsalvageable anyway. There’s more blood on his undershirt than he expected. One of those bullets seems to have grazed him after all. It’s always a bit strange what his mind filters out as unimportant during a mission. He can’t fault it though. There are indeed more important things.

Still, Gaby’s eyes widen a little as her gaze gets caught on his side. Her voice is barely more than a rasp from all the smoke she inhaled

“When did that happen?”

Napoleon shrugs and turns to the sink.

“Does it matter?”

He can perfectly picture Illya narrowing his eyes without even having to turn around.

“You should sit down, Cowboy.”

Napoleon lets out a quiet huff and turns on the water. There’s a bar of soap lying next to the faucet. He grabs it and starts to work it on his hands and halfway up his underarms.

“You’ve got a head wound. I think that trumps a graze I can barely feel.”

The movements of his hands seem jerky, the water is splashing to the floor. Napoleon frowns. He can feel his partners’ gazes drilling into his neck. 

Despite the state of Gaby’s voice, her words are as firm as ever.

“What about that stab wound on your thigh? You lost a lot of blood.”                  

Napoleon can feel his shoulders tensing even more.

“Still, I didn’t need to be carried and I feel fine.”

Maybe the last bit is not quite true, but he felt worse. He turns off the water, meeting Gaby’s frown in the mirror. She’s obviously not buying it.

“That doesn’t give you a free pass though.”

He nods. He’s going to take care of his wounds. There are just some things he needs to manage first. He motions for Illya to sit on the edge of the bathtub. Illya shoots him another little look, but doesn’t resist for once.

Opening the first aid kit, Napoleon hands Gaby the bottle of painkillers. She shakes out a few pills, swallowing two of them dry, before holding some out to him in return, raising one of her eyebrows. She knows he’s not too big on drugs, especially not after Rome, but Napoleon doesn’t dare to argue with her.

After handing the bottle to Illya, Napoleon fetches a few of the washcloths and fills the basin with warm water.

“Lean a bit forward.”

There’s not that much room to maneuver in the small bathroom, but they make do without bumping into each other.

Looking down at the top of Illya’s head, it’s hard to distinguish the wound from all the dirt. Napoleon starts carefully at the edges, where at least some of the blond of Illya’s hair shines through. In between the soot and dried blood small shards of glass are still stuck to his head, so there’s no sense in rushing.

He steps in a little closer, inviting Illya to rest his forehead against him while he works. Their exhaustion wipes away whichever shred of personal boundaries still exists between them as he can feel Illya closing the distance. He feels heavy against Napoleon, but not in an uncomfortable kind of way.

Napoleon glances at Gaby, who is slumped against the chair, eyes closed, but her body too tense for her to be really asleep. The rip in her dress makes it fall open freely, exposing her skin to the chilly air. He taps Illya on the shoulder, making him lean back again, his lids dropping a little low as well as he looks back up to him questioning.

“Just a second.”

Napoleon slips out the bathroom and grabs two blankets from the bed, setting up the small space heater and cranking it up high.

Gaby’s smile is tired but grateful when he drapes one over her. The second one goes over Peril’s lower half, who doesn’t comment on it, but leans back against Napoleon as soon as he’s within reach.

He continues to work in silence, having to swap the water in the basin twice before he starts with the disinfectants. The actual wound turns out to be rather small for the amount it bled. Still, Napoleon is going to keep an eye on Illya for the next few hours.

Turning back to the laid-out first aid kit, he quickly counts the bandages available. Gaby’s ankle probably has a higher priority than his own wounds. They can’t risk a permanent injury, anything that would make Gaby drop out of active field work.  

He doesn’t even get to voice his thoughts, before Gaby cuts him off.

“Your turn, Solo.”

Her voice cracks at the last syllable of his name, followed by a small cough.

Napoleon suppresses a small sigh. He doesn’t want to argue about this, but it seems inevitable. There’s a familiar kind of trepidation settling in his stomach, when he thinks about the next step to take control of this mess.

“Not quite yet.”

Illya’s sleepiness dispels as he frowns. Napoleon pays him no mind, as he steps around him.

“Someone should call in. I think U.N.C.L.E. would like to know we made it out there alive.”

More important, it will keep U.N.C.L.E. from sending their own strike team for the unauthorized intruders in their safe house. They are already cutting it close with the timespan they are given for such emergencies.

Gaby sits up straighter, as if she could block Napoleon’s way.

“Let me call them. Illya can help you clean up.”

Napoleon raises his eyebrows. “No offense, Gaby, but I don’t think your voice is up for that.”

Illya’s frown deepens. All three of them know, that without being able to move, Gaby won’t be much help stitching Solo up, so they would have to wait for the phone call to end anyway before treating him, whether he does it himself or lets Illya call.

“I need to talk to Waverly anyway. It won’t take long.” He motions Illya over to their supplies. “Meanwhile, you could wrap up Gaby’s ankle.”

Neither of his partners are happy, but stay silent as Napoleon leaves.

There’s the urge to check the windows again as he wanders over to the phone, but Napoleon knows they are locked. He remembers checking them. He remembers checking them in the last safe house. Maybe he could have seen the attack coming if he checked the windows once more. It’s not rational, he knows that, but he can’t shake the feeling that he could have done more. If he noticed the bomb just a few seconds later, they would have been dead. They cut it way too close this time.

With a sigh Napoleon picks up the handset. Looking back through the bathroom door he left ajar, he sees that Illya is already getting to work. For a second he contemplates checking in on them. He knows it’s not because he doesn’t trust Illya to do a decent job, but because he’s stalling.

It’s true that he needs to talk to Waverly, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t dreading it. He doesn’t know what would be better:  if Waverly already knows that they’ve let their enemies blow up their safe house, or if Napoleon is the bearer of bad news.  Waverly is still something of an enigma to him. In the few months under his command, they only see him occasionally between missions or in a briefing. They barely need to check in during missions, they don’t need to confirm their strategies with him first, apart from their mission objective he barely gives them any orders at all. Napoleon can’t gauge Waverly’s reaction and it makes him nervous. Sanders was never fair, but at least he was predictable.

A part of him would like to take Gaby up on her offer to call Waverly instead. She’s Waverly’s favorite and they all know it. Maybe Waverly might be swayed to leniency by the pitiful state of her voice.

It’s a tempting idea, but only in theory. He doesn’t know why Waverly appointed him the lead agent of their team, but he definitely takes his position seriously. There is no way he will let his partners take the brunt of the fallout.

He dials Waverly’s number carefully. With a little luck he won’t pick up. Of course it doesn’t even ring once.

“Yes?”

Waverly’s voice is sharp. Napoleon does a quick of the time zones. Waverly is a couple of hours ahead, making it the earliest hours of morning for him.

“Good morning, Mr. Waverly. I’m sorry to call at this hour.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the phone, a little too long to be just the transmission, then some rustling.

“Oh please, Mr. Solo, don’t apologize. I’m very glad you called in. I’ve already been made aware of the incident at your previously assigned safe house.”

Napoleon can’t help but swallow thickly. If Waverly already waited for him to call in, it’s worse than he thought.

“What’s your team’s status?”

Napoleon throws one look over his shoulder, where he can see his partners through the crack of the bathroom door.

“We are regrouping in safe house C97H. Agent Kuryakin suffered from a head injury, but doesn’t seem concussed. I will observe him further for signs of a trauma. Agent Teller’s left ankle is injured. I am not qualified to make a concrete diagnosis, but she doesn’t think it’s broken. Other than that they sustained minor burns and cuts, Agent Teller’s voice is in a bad shape, but nothing that could cause major complications.”

Another too long silence. Napoleon should say something more. Probably apologize. Even if he’s not quite sure what he could have done to prevent the whole incident.

Waverly beats him to it.

“The extraction team is on its way. You should expect them at sunrise.”

It takes a moment for Napoleon to fully comprehend the words. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Their cover is blown, quite literally, all the evidence they collected burned to ashes with their safe house.

He’s never failed a mission before.

He needs to try to control the damage, show that he’s still capable of taking the right actions. Maybe he won’t get reassigned then. Or sent back.

When he replies, it feels like something is stuck in his airways.

“Yes, sir. I am taking full responsibility.”

A curious hum on the other side.

“What for?”

Napoleon has to clear his throat before he can answer. If Waverly wants him to, he’s going to spell it all out.

“The failure of the mission, sir.”

Another bit of silence. This time it feels like hours.

“As the leak about your safe house came from within our office, I don’t quite see what exactly it is that you're taking responsibility for.”

Napoleon blinks once. He parrots the words before he can stop himself.

“From within our office?”

His voice sounds odd in his ears, the words somehow absurd coming from his mouth. He can hear Waverly sigh over the phone.

“Well, yes, unfortunately it was only after the attack on your team that we discovered one of our accountants has been bribed. I am terribly sorry about that.”

Napoleon hums once, the new information still running through his head. A leak in the office. They were attacked because someone traded their whereabouts for money. It should concern him, but it doesn’t. He just feels oddly light. A few moments pass before Waverly speaks again.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Solo?”

 “I’m fine, sir.” His voice still sounds odd. The light feeling increases.

“All right, then please get a little rest before the extraction. You handled the situation exceedingly well, as far as I can tell. There are not many agents who would get their team out alive in those circumstances.”

His response comes almost automatic. Their office has been compromised. He doesn’t care.

“Thank you, sir.”

A light chuckle.

“I should be thanking you, not the other way around. I’m going to check in with you and your team when you’re back at the headquarters. See you then.”

“Yes, sir, goodbye.”

Napoleon listens to Waverly hang up. He holds the phone in his hands for another few moments before putting it down.

He blinks and Illya is in front of him.

“Cowboy?”

Napoleon should be startled by Illya’s sudden appearance, but his thoughts are still stuck on the conversation with Waverly.

“Yes?”

It’s suddenly hard for him to focus. Everything feels light, almost as if he is floating.

“Your hands are shaking.”

Napoleon looks down to his fingers. Illya is right, his hands are shaking like leaves. He balls them to fists, but it doesn’t make them stop. Curious.

There’s a hand on his shoulder blade, bringing back some sense of solidity back to his body. He is slowly guided back into the bathroom. Napoleon can’t think of a reason to resist the gentle push, so he doesn’t.

Gaby is standing at the sink, her foot hovering above the ground and wrapped thickly. She shouldn’t be standing.

Maybe he said that aloud or maybe Gaby can read him too well by now, because she gives him a tired but warm smile.

“I’m fine. You’ve done enough, we’ll manage the rest. Let us take care of you.”

The lightness he felt disappears at once, leaving him utterly drained. He barely has the time to nod before his injured leg gives out. Peril’s arm is around him before he goes down.

He gets lowered on the chair Gaby had occupied before. There are gentle hands combing once through his hair, another set tracing the hem of his undershirt.

“I’m going to pull that up a bit, yes?”

Napoleon blinks his eyes open and gives another nod. When did he close them?

The blood makes the fabric stick to the wound. Napoleon hisses quietly as his shirt gets lifted. A shiver runs up his spine. He didn’t really notice the cold until now. It takes barely a second for a blanket to get thrown over his legs.

A small hand with two more pills appears in front of him.

“Take these.”

Too tired to argue, Napoleon takes both and swallows them with a glass of water that he somehow holds in his hand.

It takes only a few minutes for the pills to kick in fully, making his eyed fall shut again. The floaty feeling is back, but this time it mingles with exhaustion. He guesses that Gaby found the heavy duty painkillers at the bottom of the kit. He doesn’t like the dulling of his senses they bring, nor the slowness of his mind, but his thoughts are too fleeting to really reflect on them.

The hands in his hair are back, so the tugs and twinges on his side don’t hurt too badly. It lasts a while, then the blanket is lifted from his legs and draped over his shoulders.

Someone tries to open his belt. With a frown, he bats at the hand blindly before he is shushed by Gaby’s voice near his head.

“It’s only Illya.”

Oh. That’s kind of unexpected. He’s not exactly opposed to be undressed by his partners, but he’s just so _tired_.

“It’s alright. We need to look at the stab wound on your thigh, remember?”

Napoleon almost forgot about that one. His pants are pulled down a bit. He can’t really feel Illya prodding at the wound. His head sinks back against the top of the chair as he drifts a bit.

It seems only a second has passed, when Gaby’s hand shakes his shoulders lightly.

“Solo?”

His eyes snap open. He has to blink a few times to clear his vision. Illya and Gaby stand over him.  Napoleon takes Illya’s outstretched hand and gets pulled on his feet with a mumbled thank you.

He still feels the effect of the pain killers, his body unnaturally heavy now. Illya’s hand on his shoulder gently pushes him to set one foot before the other, encouraging him out of the bathroom. Gaby hobbles out behind them, using various surfaces to steady herself. Without a second thought Napoleon slips away from Illya to offer Gaby his arm. She hesitates for a moment, exchanging a glance with Illya, but accepts his help.

Together they make it to the bedroom. The space heater has warmed up the room significantly.

Napoleon carefully helps Gaby onto the bed. Illya brought the blankets with him, already spreading one over Gaby. He’s busy with placing a pillow under her foot as Gaby turns to Napoleon. “Tell us which side you want, before I’m not allowed to move over.”

It takes all of Napoleon’s strength to shake his head. It’s still not safe enough for all of them to sleep. His slip up after the call was bad enough. The bed is too small for three anyway.

It’s an effort to speak, his tongue painfully slow to form the right words.

“I’ll stay up for now, keep an eye on the neighborhood.”

With a scoff Illya turns to him.

“Cowboy, lie down. If you stay up any longer, you will be completely useless.”

Napoleon blinks once. So he’s useless either way.

He hears Gaby sigh. Her hand tangles with his. He looks down curiously at their intertwined fingers.

“What Illya means to say is we need you here. With us. Rest, so we can rest.”

He still wants to argue, but maybe she’s right. It’s something he has to do for his team, give them a sense of security, relax so they know they are safe. His conscience is still fighting over what to do when Gaby scoots back. Somehow her gentle pull on his hand is enough to make him lie down next to her. The soft tugs relent only after he turns on his side to face her. They are already close, when he feels the mattress dip behind him. Arms curl over his form, carefully avoiding his wounds, then there’s only warmth as both his partners pull themselves to him.

He can’t help but let out a shuddering breath.

Gaby moves in even closer, her forehead touching his.

“Is this all right?”

Napoleon manages to give her a tiny nod, so that she won’t pull back. He can feel Illya take a breath against his neck.

“You did good. You can let go now.”

And to Napoleon’s surprise, he does just that. Sleep reaches out for him not a moment after, pulling him under. He only hopes the feeling of lips pressed against his skin is not a dream.  

 


End file.
